


Stay

by TheReluctantShipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Caring John Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester Flirting, Comfortably Bisexual Dean Winchester, Dare, Family Drama, Family Feels, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, Ghosts, Good Parent John Winchester, Kissing, M/M, No Angst, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Openly Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Oral Sex, Ouija, Out of the Closet Dean, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Coital Cuddling, Renovations, Witch Castiel, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-25 18:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13218912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper
Summary: “You know,” the shopkeeper murmurs, so close that Dean can see the different shades of blue in his eyes, “magic comes at a price.”Dean grins again. “I’m sure I can think of somethin’ to repay you.”Dean meets a witch. He doesn't believe. Then he does.





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I claim no ownership over any of the characters, or the world of Supernatural, however grateful for them I may be, which is hella.  
> Shout out and my eternal thanks to xxEmi, who is a delight, and to Anya, who is one of the reasons my heart beats. These beautiful ladies beta'd for me, and I am forever grateful.

**_On a Thursday..._ **

Dean swallows hard, eyeing the dilapidated building that is his intended target. The outside is falling apart, boards are missing, the big bay window is cracked. The awning is torn, only hanging on by a few scraps. Are the shadows darker on that side of the street? No, that’s crazy. They’re just darker in front of this store in particular. The other businesses look perfectly normal in the bright Lawrence, Kansas sunshine.

“Scared, Winchester?” Charlie taunts. She takes a long, noisy sip from her Big Gulp, her eyes sparkling with mirth. Or malice. Dean’s not a hundred percent sure which.

Either way, he scoffs. “Fuck, no.”

“I dun _no-o-o,”_ she sing-songs. “I think you’re a big wuss.”

“Am not,” he returns, too fast to be believable. _Dammit._ Charlie’s too smart for her own good, and she’s gonna see right through his bravado bullshit. So, instead of staying here to suffer the inevitable mocking his best friend is sure to dish out, he walks briskly up to the little magic shop.

The Rack has been here, in this exact place, for as long as Dean can remember. He’s not sure if it used to be cleaner or better put together than it is now, but it’s definitely fallen into disrepair. The man who used to run it was a creeper. Alastair had deep, sunken eyes and a sharp smile full of rotten teeth. He used to scare the shit out of Dean, especially when he was little. The way those horrible eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went always gave him the chills.

Now, of course, Dean’s an adult. He graduated high school a few days ago, and he’s not scared of some weird old guy who used to feature heavily in his nightmares. He’s gonna go into this goddamn store, he’s going to do a full circuit walk around, and then he’s going to get out of there as fast as physically possible without making it obvious that he’s fleeing.

When he gets to the front door, he takes deep breath and pumps himself up a little bit. He is Dean _fucking_ Winchester, and he is going to kick this in the ass.

It is because of that sentiment that he will _never_ admit to how he squeaks a little when the bell over the door gives a cheerful _ding!_ when he walks in. _Well, that wasn’t there before._

The bell isn’t the only thing that’s changed. Instead of the dark, dusty, kind of smelly store that was here when Dean was a kid, it’s all light and air and a few dust motes dancing in sunbeams and when, exactly, did Dean become a poet? The point is, the store is a lot different than it used to be.

Where there used to be gross shit in jars, little animals in miserably small cages, and questionably dry “herbs” and “spell ingredients” in baskets, now there are… Colorful glass bottles with corks in the tops that sparkle in the light. Leather-bound journals embossed with symbols in a range of colors. There are stacks of colorful quills, with a little sign next to the basket that says they were humanely taken from “willing animals,” whatever the hell that means. There are probably fifteen different cups, mostly mugs, filled with a variety of colored pens and pencils, each boasting a different card _(“best for banishing spells!” “best for healing spells!” “this one isn’t best for any spells, really, but it’s a lovely color”)._ There are still “ingredients” and “herbs,” but they’re in clear plastic baggies, hanging on hooks on the far wall, and they’re each clearly labelled. There’s a truly impressive shelf of candles next to the rack of herbs, candles of every shape, size, and color that Dean could possibly imagine.

The place is clean, and warm, and well-lit, and Dean’s just a smidge in shock.

He wanders the shelves quickly, not wanting to keep Charlie waiting, but needing to get a good look at the place. He’s not really into all of this, but Sam kinda is, and God knows that he’s always keeping an eye out for presents for his brother.

When he gets to the front counter, there’s no one there, but there’s another card leaning against a little silver bell. It has the same spidery handwriting on it.

_“the witch is in”_

Dean can’t help himself. He’s kinda fascinated to see the person who has apparently wrought such a change in the place that terrified him so much when he was little. He doesn’t second-guess himself whatsoever when he hits the bell, sending a clear ringing through the store.

“Oh!” A surprisingly deep voice calls from the door behind the counter. “Just a second!”

There’s a thud, a muttered _“oof,”_ and some scrambling, all of which has Dean grinning when he’s joined by the person behind the counter.

And oh, dear _God,_ what a person to be joined by.

Dark hair, pale skin, stubbly jaw. Almost as tall as Dean, lean, but clearly strong. Striking eyes that are _overwhelmingly_ blue. A smile that restarts Dean’s heart, since it _definitely_ stopped when this guy walked in (cliché as it may be).

“Hi!” the man says, eyes glowing, his smile casually giving Dean palpitations. He’s wearing a dark blue button-down and a loose pair of ripped jeans. His hair looks like he just enjoyed a thoroughly good fuck in that back room.

_Dear God._

“Hi,” Dean croaks a little. He tries to put on a smirk to cover.

Those cobalt eyes are surveying him blatantly now, and the man’s own mouth is twisting up into a devious smile. When he meets Dean’s gaze again, they’re burning with interest.

“And _what,”_ that whiskey voice purrs, “can I do for _you?”_

Dean blushes a little, but he also preens under the attention. He’s known he was into dudes since he was old enough to know that he could be into _anyone,_ and he is definitely, _definitely_ into this particular dude. So he leans onto the counter, bracing himself on his elbows, and gives a full-blown, guaranteed-panty-melting grin. “I was looking for some magic,” he says, letting his own voice husk a little.

The man’s pupils expand a little, and his smile becomes a bit more predatory. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, then.” He mirrors Dean’s posture, leaning on his elbows, and suddenly they’re so close that Dean can _smell_ the guy, and _dammit,_ are there no flaws to be found? Of course he smells good.

“Yeah? Whaddaya got?” He tries to play it cool and not bury his face in this guy’s neck and just inhale until he passes out.

“That depends. What are you looking for?”

 _Anything._ Dean thinks quickly about the little cards on the cups of pens. “Uh, a banishing. Spell. A banishing spell.”

A quirked eyebrow, and Dean’s knees go weak. “Really? A banishing spell?”

“Yeah, sure. I got… Uh, a ghost?”

“A vengeful spirit is a very serious thing, you know.”

Dean nods earnestly. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. I mean, that’s why I’m here, ain’t it?” Again, Dean doesn’t believe in this stuff, but God knows he’s bent the truth about more important shit than whether or not he believes in the supernatural to get into someone’s pants.

Dean’s not sure this one lands, though. He feels pinned by the man’s gaze, unable to look away or deflect. He has a feeling that this guy knows _precisely_ what Dean’s doing. Not that Dean would particularly mind being called out, but he’s a little embarrassed about being caught low-key making fun of the guy’s beliefs and profession all in one fell swoop.

“You know,” the shopkeeper murmurs, so close that Dean can see the different shades of blue in his eyes, “magic comes at a price.”

“Yeah? How much?”

The man hums and props his chin in his hand, a smirk on his face again. Thankfully, the action forces him to back off a little bit, which does nothing to clear Dean’s mind, but it does make it a little easier to breathe.

“I dunno,” he says. “Sometimes money won’t do, you know. Banishing spells are very complex.”

Dean grins again. “I’m sure I can think of _something_ to repay you.”

Dean knows for a fact that the grin on his own face has _nothing_ on the one the man across the counter graces him with. “Oh, no, _you_ won’t think of anything. _I_ will be setting the price.”

Unable to stop himself, Dean leans forward. “Yeah? What are you thinking?”

The other man stands up quickly, and Dean follows suit, stemming his own disappointment at the loss of proximity. He watches as a receipt book is pulled out, and that same flowing handwriting fills out each little box.

“What’s your name?” the other man asks, his eyes coming back up to land on him.

“Dean,” he says, a little breathily. “Dean Winchester.”

The man’s smile isn’t anything but blinding this time. “It’s lovely to meet you, Dean Winchester.” He writes Dean’s name on the book with a flourish, then tears the page off and hands it and a pen to Dean. “Write your phone number on the bottom there, please.”

Dean does so quickly, then hands the page back. The man scans the numbers hungrily, then looks back up. “Castiel,” he says with a smile. “My name is Castiel Novak. I’m going to let your request roll around in my head for a while, and I will call you tonight with my answer.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Tonight, huh?”

Castiel chuckles, and Dean’s lost. “Yes, tonight. Spellwork is intricate, it takes time. I’ll have to do some real research if you want to commission a unique spell. I need to make sure I’m up for it.”

“And what kinda price are we talking about, if you decide that you wanna do it?”

Castiel smiles. “Like you said, Dean. I’m sure I can think of something.”

* * *

Later that night, after merciless questions from both Charlie, Sam, and most surprisingly, his _father,_ Dean gets a phone call.

“’lo?”

“Hello, this is Castiel from The Broom Closet.” _Huh, he changed the name. Probably a good thing._ “May I speak with Dean Winchester?”

Dean smiles. “Heya, Cas.”

Cas’ voice warms considerably. “Dean. How are you?”

“I’m good. What’s up?”

“I’ve decided to go ahead and take your case. Would you be able to come by the shop again tomorrow to discuss details and payment?”

Dean lets Cas hear the smirk in his voice. “Yeah? What are you thinking for payment?”

Cas hums, and Dean feels it everywhere. “I was thinking of getting sweaty.”

* * *

**_On a Friday…_ **

The next morning, Dean gets to The Broom Closet at the agreed upon time. He put a little more thought into what he’s wearing than he usually does, which is ridiculous, because he still ended up in a t-shirt and jeans. And if the t-shirt is the one that Sammy shrunk a little in the wash, so it hugs his chest and shoulders, well. It was probably just at the top of the pile.

He parks his Baby at the curb. Before he can even make a move to get out, the door to the shop opens, and a _very_ rumpled witch steps into the morning sunshine. Cas is wearing another button-down, this one white, and more ripped up jeans. He has a pair of aviators perched on his nose, and while they _do_ make Dean’s mind take a swan dive into the gutter, they do absolutely nothing to hide the grumpy frown on Cas’ face.

Dean leans over to unlock the door, and Cas slides into the passenger seat. “Mornin’, Cas!” he says brightly.

 _“Ugh._ Don’t tell me you’re one of those awful morning people.”

Dean laughs, then laughs harder when Cas winces and groans. “Come on! It’s beautiful out!!” He pushes his own sunglasses up his nose and just smiles at Cas’ glare. “Where to first, hot stuff?”

“Coffee. Dear Goddess, please, _coffee.”_

* * *

After they get coffee (medium, black, with two sugars for Dean, and some obnoxious confection with whipped cream and cocoa powder sprinkled on top for Cas), they head to the hardware store.

When Cas said “getting sweaty,” he meant “I’ll write this spell for you if you help me rebuild the awning and storefront of my recently purchased magic shop.” Normally, this is a proposition Dean would scoff at, because the summer between high school and college is for sleeping until one in the afternoon and doing fucking _nothing_ all day. Spending more time with Cas, though, is worth getting up before ten. Lucky for Dean, John Winchester has been letting his eldest son help with his remodeling and carpentry business since he was old enough to (relatively) safely hold a hammer.

The drive to the store confirms some of what Dean suspected about Castiel. Besides being smoking hot, he’s also smart, has a dry sense of humor, and sees the world at an angle that Dean has never even considered. It’s fascinating, and Dean gets the idea that he made the right call by agreeing to help Cas out.

Normally, when he’s in any kind of store, Dean is an “in and out” kind of guy. He knows what he needs, he goes straight (heh) for it, and then he leaves. It’s a habit that comes from his father. He’s never questioned it, and no one has ever gotten him to wander through a store aimlessly, much less enjoy it.

Which is why he doesn’t have a good explanation for why he just follows Cas around without complaint. The man _clearly_ has no direction in mind, he’s just flitting from one interesting thing to the next, and Dean’s just… Trailing behind, a smile on his face as he sips his coffee.

They’re here to get the supplies they need to rebuild, so Dean doesn’t know how they end up standing in front of the wall of paint swatches, arguing over colors.

“The door has to be purple,” Cas says firmly. He’s perked up quite a bit after the diabetes he called coffee kicks in. “A purple door means a witch lives there.”

Dean’s eyebrows go up. “Do you _live_ there?”

“In the apartment above the shop, yes, I do.”

“... Huh.”

“And I think the rest should be turquoise.”

 _“Cas,”_ Dean says severely. “Cas, babe, no way.”

The little frown on his face kills Dean a little. “It’s _my_ store.”

“And it’s gonna be an eyesore! Come on.” He looks around and picks up a sky blue swatch. “What about this?”

Cas looks at the light blue color critically. “Only if you agree to paint the shutters purple, too.”

Dean grins. “Deal.”

* * *

They’re almost out of the lumber section when Cas stops, his eyes wide. Dean follows his gaze to a lumber rack of cedar wood. Dean admits that it’s really, really nice, but Cas is _vibrating_ next to him as he stares.

“Do you… Wanna go look?” Dean asks, trying to suppress a smile.

Cas nods and walks over to the rack, his eyes never leaving the (heh) wood. When he gets there, he runs his very pretty hands over the very pretty cedar planks lovingly. Dean’s enchanted, and he finds himself coming up behind the other man and hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Whatcha doin’?”

“It’s beautiful,” Cas murmurs, leaning back into him. “It’s from a very old, very wise tree. It would be _incredible_ to make an altar out of it.”

And goddamn if the reverence in that fucking chainsaw that Cas calls a voice doesn’t make Dean speak before he thinks. “Yeah? I can build you an altar.”

Cas turns to look at him, and Dean doesn’t move away even a little when he meets Cas’ gaze head-on, so their noses are almost touching. The way those blue eyes are shining makes Dean think that whatever amount of work he just signed himself up for will be totally, totally worth it.

* * *

**_On a couple of Thursdays later..._ **

There’s sweat dripping into Dean’s eyes. He can feel the heat _everywhere._ He stretches every muscle he can, his hands steady as he reaches his goal.

“Dean,” Cas purrs from beneath him, “you’re doing very well.”

Dean looks down and winks. “I’d be doing better if we were naked.”

Cas smiles and pats Dean’s calf where it rests at eye level on the ladder. “All in good time.”

Dean laughs and reaches up to pin the last of the canvas for the awning onto the frame he finished the morning before.

He’s been working with Cas for about a couple of weeks now, and he can’t remember a time he had more fun getting to know a person.

When people who are new to witchcraft come into the store, people Cas calls “baby witchlets,” he answers the hundreds of questions patiently. He’s incredibly knowledgeable, able to answer inquiries from novices and experts alike. He’s sweet and nonjudgmental about a person’s knowledge or interest level. It’s obvious that Cas is one of those people who’s doing what they should be doing. It fills Dean’s chest with a funny kind of warmth.

And watching Cas bend over to pick something up, or stretch up on his toes to put something away, makes something _else_ of Dean’s fill with warmth.

“All righty,” he says, rocking back down off of his tiptoes. “Awning’s finished.”

He has to admit, the place looks pretty damn good. Replacing the storefront and the windows took an entire three days, especially because Cas refused to shut down business (“Cas, babe, it’s gonna be _dangerous.”_ “Dean, the witchlets need guidance.”), and painting took another day, and don’t get him _started_ on the awning, but the end result is amazing. The store finally looks warm, inviting, and happy. It’s a place that Dean wants to be, a place he really likes being.

Cas steps back to the sidewalk and takes the whole image in. A wide smile that makes his nose crinkle spreads across his face. “Oh, Dean,” he says softly. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Dean grins and hops off the ladder. He joins Cas on the sidewalk and throws an arm around his shoulders. “It _does_ look pretty damn good, doesn’t it?”

Cas hums his assent and snakes an arm around Dean’s waist.

That’s another kind of amazing thing. Since they met, they’ve been acting like a couple. Dean will wrap his arms around Cas from behind, and he’ll lean back into Dean’s chest like it’s perfectly natural, like they’ve been doing it for years. It feels normal to place a hand at the small of Cas’ back, or to follow Cas’ lead when he does the same.

It doesn’t feel like a game, or like they’re chasing each other. It’s like they’ve just decided, by silent mutual agreement, to let the tension build. It’s not a question of “will they, won’t they,” it’s just a matter of when. Dean finds it incredibly refreshing that he doesn’t have to wonder if Cas wants him. The heated looks and the soft touches, they’ve cleared that up for him. He knows Cas wants him, he knows he wants Cas. It’s just going to… Happen when it happens.

“I think your work out here is done,” Cas murmurs, looking down at his shoes in a rare show of shyness.

Dean turns to press his lips ever so gently to Cas’ hair. “Yeah?” He has no illusions that this is the end of their time together, even if he hadn’t promised Cas another project. “Better get started on that altar then.”

Cas turns and smiles sunnily at him. “Then I should get to work on your spell.”

* * *

**_The Wednesday after that..._ **

“I need to go to your house.”

Dean looks up from where he’s washing his hands in Cas’ kitchen sink. He just came in from working on Cas’ altar on the little patio behind the shop, and he’s hoping that the sweat is making his t-shirt cling to his chest in an attractive way instead of a gross way. _Fingers crossed._ “For what?”

“I need to feel the energies of the house. To be able to release the ghost.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Uh…” It’s not that he doesn’t want Cas in his house (in his bed), it’s just that… “Cas… You now that I, uh, that I made the ghost thing up, right? To talk to you?”

Cas smiles beatifically as he moves through the apartment. “Of course. You’re not a very good liar, Dean. But I have a hunch, and I’d like to go to your house, anyway.”

Dean smiles as he watches Cas putter around, gathering supplies and putting them into a leather messenger bag (and Dean only knows what to call it because Sam is a huge nerd, okay?). “You’re not mad? That I… Kinda fibbed about the ghost?”

“Of course not. It brought me to you. I can’t be angry about anything that’s done that.”

He feels himself blush hard at the obvious, unselfconscious affection in Cas’ voice. Cas does that, sometimes. He’s sincere _all the time._ He’s always laying it all out there for anyone and everyone to see, like he’s not even scared. It mystifies Dean.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, snatching the hand towel to dry off. “Uh, yeah, okay. When?”

“Can we go tonight?”

 _“Tonight?_ Uh… Yeah, all right. We can maybe… Maybe we can have dinner? With my dad and little brother?”

The way Cas’ eyes light up lets Dean know that was the right thing to say. “I would love that, Dean.”

* * *

“Are you nervous about introducing me to your family?” Cas asks, feigning indifference on the way to Dean’s house.

Dean doesn’t even have to think about it. “Nope.”

“I just… We haven’t talked about your family’s beliefs. I know that my faith is… Unconventional.”

Dean reaches across the bench seat and twines his fingers with Cas’. “Hey, I’m not worried at all. They’re gonna like you just fine, sweetheart.”

* * *

As Dean suspected, Sam and Cas get along _very_ well. Mostly in that Sammy asks questions at a mile a minute, and Cas answers each one with the same patience he uses at the store. Sam eats it up.

He’s a little less sure about John. Dean’s dad is a pretty stoic guy, so it’s hard to tell for sure, but he thinks the fact that John hasn’t asked any of them to leave is a good sign. John wouldn’t care that Cas is a guy, he’s known that Dean’s bisexual since Dean himself has known, and he’s never particularly cared. John’s never really held with anything but a sort of laissez-faire Christianity, though. Cas has a tattoo of a flaming pentagram on the inside of his arm, for God’s sake.

But John doesn’t say anything at all. He just cocks an eyebrow at Dean when Cas explains what he’s here for. Dean’s gonna go ahead and put that in the “win” column.

John is in the living room watching the game, so they set up in the kitchen.

“This is better, anyway,” Cas says as he unpacks his bag onto the kitchen counter.

“Why?” Dean asks. “Is it about the ‘energies?’” He tries to keep the question as sincere as possible, and he doesn’t do air quotes like he kinda wants to (all Cas’ influence). He really doesn’t want to mock Cas, he just doesn’t _believe_ in any of this.

Cas smirks. “No, there are chairs and a table in here, and I have a bad knee. Sitting on the floor would kill me.” Dean blushes hard, and Cas chuckles. “Most of what I do is hardly that complicated. A lot of witchcraft is more about intention than execution.”

 _“Yeah,_ jerk,” Sam sneers.

“Shut up, bitch.”

Cas is smiling at both of them. “It’s quite all right. I’m aware of the… Preconceived notions that most people have.” He pulls out a blue notebook with a big cartoon bumblebee on the front, pulls a lime green pen from the spiral, and tucks it behind his ear. “As important as it is to have the right materials, almost everything can be worked around, if need be.”

They watch as Cas lights four candles, one for each cardinal direction. He lights them in order of east, south, west, and north, naming elements for each one. In the same direction, he lays a circle by sprinkling water and salt, then he motions Sam and Dean, who have both been standing within the circle, to join him at the table.

He’s got the notebook open to show the ritual he just performed, color-coded and in his messy script. Dean admires the way that ridiculous pen contrasts with the rest of his coloring as Cas digs around in his bag.

“What was the circle for?” Sam asks.

“To protect us,” Cas says, distracted as he pulls a wide, flat box out of his bag. “While I don’t get the impression that the spirit in the house is unpleasant, angry, or violent, you never know what you’ll attract when you try to talk to them. Sometimes you just get the spirit you’re trying to reach, sometimes you get much, much more. The circle is a ward, just a protection against spirits we do not invite in.”

Sam’s eyes are wide. “Woah.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Cas, you know I lied about the ghost. There’s nothing here.”

Cas just smiles blandly. “Humor me, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but sits when he’s told to and watches Cas open the box.

“Dude! A Ouija board!” Of _course_ Sam knows what it is, the geek.

“Ouija boards are serious tools of witchcraft, Sam,” Cas’ voice has become strong and sure, his “teacher” voice. Dean shifts in his chair, trying not to be obvious about how much of a turn on “teacher” voice is. “I know they sell them as... _Toys,_ or _games,”_ and the disgust in Cas’ words make it very clear how he feels about _that,_ “but they can be _dangerous._ Even people who don’t believe have had terrifying experiences with them. So if you ever see someone who’s not knowledgeable enough to at least put down a protective circle, get out of there, and take as many people as possible with you, because that person is _not safe.”_

Sam’s eyes are even wider now, and his face has taken on that kind of hero worship look he sometimes gets. “Yeah, yeah, definitely, Cas.”

The witch smiles, and his face softens. “I don’t want to scare you, but this is important. Shit like this can really get someone hurt.”

Sam nods. “Of course.”

Cas sits next to Dean at the table as he unfolds the board and puts the little wooden piece _(“It’s a planchette, Dean,” in Sam’s know-it-all voice)_ on the letter **G**. “Now, there are a lot of misconceptions about Ouija boards, even when one knows that they are dangerous if misused,” Cas continues. “There is the idea that the board itself is dangerous, that it must not be left where spirits can get to it, et cetera. Most of that is hogwash. Ouija boards can only be used by people. They’re _tools,_ they are not sentient, and certainly not malicious. While they _must_ be used properly and safely, as long as the person using it is knowledgeable, the session can be remarkably productive. Personally, I’ve never had a bad experience.”

He takes one of Dean’s hands and one of Sam’s and puts them each on the planchette. He joins it with one of his own, and looks at the two of them in turn. “Everyone ready?”

When they both nod, Cas closes his eyes.

“Do you have to close your eyes?” Sam whispers, reverent.

Cas opens them back up and smiles. “Not at all, I’m just a tad scatterbrained. It helps me focus. And you don’t have to whisper, Sam. The spirits have seen many a terrifying thing, they won’t be scared off by our voices.” Sam blushes, but Cas’ eyes have slipped closed again, so he doesn’t see.

“Hello,” he says formally. “My name is Castiel Novak. I’m a guest of Dean and Sam Winchester. The three of us are here, and we’d like to speak with the spirit inhabiting this home. Would you be amenable to that?”

Dean feels the little wooden piece under his hand jerk, and he watches in fascination as it moves, slowly but surely, over to the **YES** in the corner of the board.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out. He looks at Cas. “Are you doing that?”

One eye cracks open to glare at him, ire clear in its blue depths. “I feel like it’s obvious that I wouldn’t do all of this just to fuck with you, Dean.” He thinks for a moment. “Or just to _fuck_ you.”

“Gross,” Sam says, but he’s clearly distracted, staring at the planchette with big eyes.

“Thank you, spirit,” Cas says, ignoring both of the Winchesters. “Have you been trying to communicate with the family who lives here?”

The planchette moves away from, then back onto the **YES**.

“May I ask for your name?”

The planchette moves to the letter **M** and Dean’s blood runs cold.

**MARY**

The thing is, Dean’s never told Cas about his mom. As much as they’ve talked in the last few weeks, they’ve never talked much about their families. Dean gets the idea that Cas doesn’t talk to his very much, and Cas has made some vague remarks that they’re all pretty strictly religious. Dean’s never said a _damn_ word about his mother, and especially not her fucking _name._ At most, he talks about Sam, because he’s kinda always talking about Sam.

Anger washes over him, and while he’s smart enough to know that it’s probably born of fear more than anything, he’s helpless to stop the way he glares at his little brother. “Are _you_ doing this?”

Before Sam can answer, Cas interrupts. _“Dean.”_ His voice isn’t angry, but it’s firm. “Calm yourself down. Sam isn’t doing anything anymore than I am, and I need you to keep a cool head while we’re doing this, or we’ll have to put a stop to it right now. Do you understand me?”

Dean tries very hard to smother his anger. He sucks in a harsh breath through his nose, and lets it out explosively. “Okay, okay, sorry.”

“Thank you. Now, who is Mary?”

Before either of them can respond, the planchette moves again.

**MOM**

Cas gasps a little bit. “She’s… Your mother?”

**YES**

Cas gathers himself and nods. “Okay, okay. So the spirit in the house is Mary. Mary, are you aware that you’ve… Died?”

**YES**

“Okay, well, that’s _one_ awkward conversation out of the way.”

“How do we know it’s really her?” Dean demands.

“Mary,” Cas says calmly, “is there something you used to say to Dean? Something only you and he would know about?”

**HEY JUDE**

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. Another thing he’s never told Cas, or Sam, or _anyone,_ is about Mary singing him to sleep at night to the Beatles. “Holy shit.” Not even John knows.

“I take it that means something?”

“Uh… Yeah. Yeah, it’s her.”

Cas nods. “All right. Mary, do you have something you’d like to say to your children?”

**YES**

“Very well. I’m going to leave our hands on the planchette, and you can say whatever you need to, provided that it is in English. Keep in mind, however, that if I feel at any point that you’re putting any of us in danger, I will immediately put a stop to this ritual. Have I made myself clear, Mary?”

**YES**

“Wonderful. Please proceed.” Cas whips the pen from behind his ear, pulls his notebook closer, flips to a new page, and starts to record everything Mary is saying with his free hand.

**I LOVE YOU BOYS SO MUCH YOU BOTH GREW UP TALL IM PROUD OF YOU BOTH YOURE BOTH SO SMART WHERE IS YOUR FATHER**

The last makes Dean wince. “Uh, I dunno if Dad’s gonna be all right with this-”

Because right now? Right now, Dean _believes._ No one knew about the Beatles, and he doesn’t think either of the people at the table with him would be moving the little piece beneath their fingers on their own just to fuck with him. So, yeah, Dean believes. He’s just not sure John will.

Sam, however, is already on it. His hazel eyes are shining with tears, which makes Dean realizes that his own face is a bit wet. When he peeks a look at Cas, his eyes are misty, too, and he’s got a gentle smile on his face.

“Dad!”

John comes in, beer in hand, and surveys the scene at his table. “What’s all this?”

Dean knows that Sam is too excited to answer their dad right now in any sort of coherent way, and as good a father as John Winchester is, he’s not the most patient man in the world, so Dean takes over.

“Listen, Dad, I know this sounds nuts, but Cas _found_ the spirit in the house. She’s talking to us on the Ouija board, and she knows things no one else would know. It’s… I mean, it’s Mom, Dad.”

John’s face is dark, and it just darkens more and more as Dean continues. They don’t really talk about Mary Winchester very often. Her memory has a silent sort of shrine around it. Dean should have realized that his father wouldn’t be happy about this development. He supposes that he was too excited, too.

“Excuse me?” John’s deep voice is low with danger.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s _Mom,_ Dad, isn’t that _awesome?”_

John’s gaze lands unerringly on Cas. “I think you’ve done enough,” he snarls. “Get the hell out of my house.”

Dean’s hackles go up, but Cas seems unruffled as he nods. “Very well, Mr. Winchester. Let me dismiss the spirit and clean up, and I would be happy to-“

“No, you’re leaving _now.”_

John steps forward, and everything happens very quickly after that.

 _“No!”_ Cas shouts, standing, his hand held up as if to stop John Winchester in his tracks.

“Dad!” Dean shouts, standing in an attempt to get between his father and his… His _whatever_ Cas is.

John crosses over the invisible barrier created by the salt and the water, effectively breaking the circle.

The candles flare high, at least three feet each, making Sam yelp in alarm.

And, most notably, Mary Winchester appears at the head of the table, about twelve inches in front of John.

The four men fall silent as they stare at her in wonder. She’s wearing the nightgown she died in, in a house fire just a floor above where they stand now. Her long, blonde hair cascades over her shoulder, and her eyes are warm as she stares at John.

The eldest Winchester looks like someone just punched him in the stomach. “Mary?” he rasps.

“Mary,” Cas says severely. The spirit looks over at him, face still kind, but attentive. “Mary, they didn’t know. You mustn’t harm anyone, all right? They didn’t know not to break the circle. I really, _really_ don’t want to banish you, but again, if I think you’re going to put someone in danger, I will do so immediately. Have I made myself clear?”

Cas is like Dean’s never seen him before. The kinda flaky, smart, funny, sweet witch he’s gotten to know (and now firmly believes in the powers of) is gone. In his place some sort of magical warrior, blue eyes blazing, stubbly jaw clenched. His entire body is thrumming with tension. It’s… _Very_ attractive, not that Dean is focusing on his dick right now.

Not with his mother in the room, anyway.

Mary nods at Cas and turns back to John. She raises a hand to cup his face, running her thumb lovingly over his cheekbone. It strikes Dean as an extremely personal moment, and if he wasn’t so entranced by the sight of his mother, he’d be embarrassed to be witnessing it.

“Mary,” John chokes out. There are tears running freely down his face. “Oh, God, Mary, I’m so _sorry.”_

She shakes her head sharply and the planchette starts quickly moving on the board again. Luckily, at least _Cas_ seems to have some presence of mind, and he immediately begins writing down what she says.

**ITS NOT YOUR FAULT JOHN IT WAS NEVER YOUR FAULT YOU DID YOUR BEST**

“Oh, God,” John moans again. He doesn’t move to wipe his face, seemingly content to let Mary do it for him. “Baby, I miss you so much.”

**YOUVE DONE SO WELL**

“I wish you were here with me.”

**IM SORRY**

“Don’t be, baby.”

**I LOVE YOU**

“Love you, too.”

Mary turns to look at Dean, and he feels the tears start to fall down his own face. He also feels Cas move closer, still with his notebook at the ready, to be a warm, steadying presence at his back.

“Heya, Ma,” he croaks out.

**IM SO SORRY BABY**

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t, it’s not your fault.”

**I AM SO SO PROUD OF YOU**

A sob wracks through him. “I miss you, Mom,” he whispers.

**I KNOW SWEETHEART I MISS YOU TOO I LOVE YOU SO MUCH**

“Love you, too,” he manages, before his throat closes up completely.

He’s not surprised to feel Cas place a gentle hand on his hip. He’s a little taken aback (as much as he can be in this emotional state) when Cas uses that hand to guide Dean to sit in his lap. The witch wraps an arm around his waist and settles Dean firmly on his legs, his eyes still on the notebook in front of him, still furiously transcribing Mary’s words to her family. Dean does not, and will never, have the words to describe how grateful he is for Cas in this moment, freely offering comfort, even as he does everything he can to ensure that this moment is recorded.

Mary is cupping Sam’s face now, staring down at him eagerly, lovingly.

**YOURE SO TALL SO SMART**

Sam blushes. “Thanks.”

Sam doesn’t remember their mom. Sam was only six months old when Dean, on chubby four-year-old legs, hauled him out of the house fire that took her away from them. As much as Dean would like it to, he knows this doesn’t mean as much to Sam as it does to him and John.

Maybe that’s all right, though.

Cas’ arm tightens around his waist, like he can _hear_ Dean’s heart breaking and remaking itself in his chest.

**IM SORRY I DIDN’T GET TO BE HERE FOR YOU**

At that, Sam does tear up a little. “It’s okay, Mom. I… I love you.”

Mary’s smile is radiant.

**I LOVE YOU TOO BABY SO MUCH**

She starts to flicker, and all three of the Winchesters tense. Cas stays calm, but he looks up from his notebook. “She’s overexerted herself. She won’t be visible much longer.”

Dean’s chest feels like it’s going to explode. “Will she still be around?”

Cas looks at Mary. “That depends on you, Mrs. Winchester.”

**PLEASE CALL ME MARY**

“All right, then. Mary, it depends on you. I have the tools to send you on. If you’d prefer, you can stay here. I will warn you, however, spirits that stick around tend to be… Angry. I believe that it is only the wish to speak to your family one last time that has kept you sane.” He hesitates. “I… I think you will deteriorate very quickly, should you stay.”

Mary looks sad, but not surprised.

**I NEED TO GO**

“I think that would be best, yes.”

“Wait!” John shouts, a devastated look on his face. “Wait, please, don’t go. We can figure something out. We can-“

The sound of Cas’ pen scratching on the paper cuts John off.

**NO I DON’T WANT TO HURT ANY OF YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I JUST WANTED TO SAY GOODBYE I HAVE TO GO**

Mary flickers out again, stays gone for a beat, then comes back, looking tired.

“Dad,” Sam says softly. “Look at her. This is exhausting her.”

When his wife died, John Winchester spent a long, _long_ time learning to let go. It is now, as he takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly, that they see the results of those lessons.

He’s silent for a long time, but he finally nods. “All right,” he says roughly. “Yeah.”

Cas nods, too. “Very well.”

* * *

Cas is pulling together everything he needs to banish Mary Winchester. Dean’s trying not to focus on that, because even though he doesn’t _really_ have her, it kinda feels like he just got her back.

There are a few colorful, intricate glass bottles, along with a couple of the cheap plastic ones that spices come in at the grocery store. Dean cocks an eyebrow and does what he does best, which is deflect, deflect, deflect. “Not very witchy, Cas.”

For just a beat, he worries that he’s offended him, but Cas just smiles and rolls his eyes. “Like I said, it’s not really about what calibur materials you have, as much as it’s about the intention you have. These are just here to… Help her along.”

The reminder stings, and Cas sobers and approaches Dean until he can feel the heat radiating off of the other man’s chest. Cas’ eyes are bluer than ever and intense as hell as they survey Dean’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently. “I wish this wasn’t happening.”

Dean gives into the urge to rest his forehead on Cas’ shoulder and wrap his arms around his slim waist. “Not your fault,” he murmurs, letting his eyes fall closed. “Just a bad situation all around.”

Cas winds his arms up around Dean and holds him close. “I’m still sorry.”

They stay like that until Sam comes in from setting up everything Cas told him to. “We’re ready.”

* * *

In the end, Mary goes pretty easily. There’s no fire, or bright light, or wail of despair as she goes. She simply moves the planchette again ( **I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH** ), blows them a kiss, and is gone when Cas whispers the final words of the ritual. When Dean looks over at him, just after his mom disappears, he sees the witch discreetly wiping the tears from his eyes. Dean thinks he might fall a little bit in love with him just then.

Cas insists on doing the cleanup himself. He shoos the Winchesters from the kitchen and into the living room. John woodenly calls to order pizza for the four of them, his voice flat and without inflection. Once the order is taken care of, he just stares at the wall, his hands gripping the arms of the chair he’s in too hard, lost in thought.

Dean’s firmly in his own head when he hears the backdoor open and shut quietly. It takes a beat or two for him to realize what that means, but once he does, he’s out the door like a shot.

_“Cas!”_

Cas is at the end of the driveway, his bag slung over his shoulder. He turns to see Dean, a soft smile on his face. Dean catches up and frown down at him. “The hell, Cas?”

“I thought this should be a time for your family to be together. I don’t want to intrude.”

“What? No, no, you’re not intruding.”

“Dean, you just lost your mother. _Again._ And I think it would be perfectly reasonable of you to blame me, and I _also_ think-“

 _“Blame_ you?” Dean is in shock. “Cas, sweetheart, no one _blames_ you. You…” And… Well… _Shit._

See, Dean has always been comfortable with himself. There was little to no anxiety about figuring out he’s bi. The only real Big Kid Feelings Talk he’s ever had to have was with Cassie. When it was too little, too late, he just _dealt_ with it. So Dean’s never really gotten comfortable with being sincere, or talking about shit that’s real, or important, or scary.

Cas, though, Cas is worth it.

“You gave her back,” Dean says thickly, tears springing to his eyes again. “It was just for a few minutes, but _Cas,_ you gave her back. I can’t… I can’t even figure out how to _start_ thanking you.”

Just like that, he’s got six feet of wild-haired witch in his arms, nuzzling his face into Dean’s neck, right where he belongs. He wraps Cas up firmly, pressing a hard kiss to his temple. “Stay,” he whispers, and it’s raw and painful and honestly it’s the most Dean can give at this point.

Lucky for him, Cas is already nodding. “Of course, Dean. Of course I will.”

* * *

**_Two Fridays later…_ **

Dean pulls up to The Broom Closet a few minutes before seven. It’s the second time he’s been nervous to be here, although it’s for a much different reason.

The store has changed so much in the time he’s known Cas. It’s bright and cheerful instead of dark and gloomy. The old, horrible, rusty sign that named it The Rack has been swapped with a painstakingly carved wooden sign, proudly bearing the name The Broom Closet in big, swooping letters. It was just sitting in Baby’s backseat one morning before Dean took off for Cas’, but they both know it’s a gift from John. Cas cried, and Dean hung it up the same day.

There’s not a whole lot for Dean to do around the store anymore now that the renovation is done. He just follows Cas around and does whatever Cas wants now, whether it be restocking or cleaning or moving stuff around. He knows very well that Cas could do it all himself, but Dean got used to coming to the magic shop every day, and he plans on being there every day ‘till Cas kicks him out. Which, luckily, he doesn’t seem inclined to do.

Tonight, though, tonight is different. Tonight is the First Date.

They both knew it was coming, but Dean still stumbled over his words when he asked Cas out on a real date. He’s usually pretty smooth, but Cas… Well, as in all things, Cas is different.

Cas comes out right at seven, and Dean’s breath leaves him in a _whoosh._ Nothing is really _that_ different. He’s still in a button-down, but his jeans don’t have any holes in them. Where he’s usually wearing hippie canvas shoes _(“You can’t wear those into a hardware store, Cas, it’s not safe.” “Well, you’ll have to protect me, won’t you?”),_ now he’s wearing black Converse. His hair is still insane, but he’s got a bow tie on. So, no, nothing is _super_ different, but somehow the knowledge that the changes are just for him makes Dean a little dizzy.

By the way Cas is smirking as he walks to the car, he knows it, too. Anticipation and affection and heat are swimming in his eyes.

Dean is leaning against the Impala, arms crossed over his chest. Cas walks right up to him, only a few inches between them.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas. Ready to go?”

Amusement flares in those blue eyes. “I think so, yes.”

* * *

They’ve only been in this restaurant for five fucking minutes, and Dean’s ready to call it quits.

It’s like… Okay, Cas is great, and Dean has always been aware of him on some level. He thinks that the moment walked into The Broom Closet he started to become _aware_ of Castiel.

Now, though… Now that they’re here, on a date, and the romantic intention has been made perfectly clear, Dean is _freaking the fuck out._

Like, how did he never notice Cas’ mouth? Sure, he’s thought about carrying around lip balm since Cas’ lips are always at least a little chapped. But how did he keep himself from thinking about how soft they are, how pliant they’ll be under his own?

How did he avoid thinking of Cas’ hands? Oh, he’s admired them in a sort of absent-minded way when he was handling herbs, or swinging them in the air as he spoke. He’s just never really considered those long fingers on his skin. Digging into his hips as Cas fucks him, or tangled with his own fingers as he drives into Cas’ warmth.

 _And_ Dean needs to stop it right now, or he’s going to throw Cas over his shoulder, caveman style, and walk them both right out of this place.

Cas is biting his lower lip, driving Dean crazy. “Dean,” he says, and though his voice is technically soft, there’s just a hint of growl in it, enough to make Dean’s chest tight.

“Yeah, Cas?” he rasps, his eyes never leaving that damn mouth.

“You know, I have food at my place.” Cas lowers his eyes demurely, and Dean knows it’s bullshit, he _knows_ it is, but damn if it doesn’t set his blood on fire.

“Your place?” he asks, a little confused, and wondering if Cas would let him get on his knees and worship his cock in the bathroom.

Cas’ eyes snap up to his, then roll. He leans forward, and Dean is helpless to do anything but mirror the move.

“I am trying, not very subtly, to get you back to my place so I can try, again, not very subtly, to get your dick in my ass.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits. He blinks, opens and closes his mouth like a fish a few times, and just stares for a few moments. When he finally catches up, he closes his eyes and lets out a shuddery, heartfelt, _“Fuck.”_

Cas hums. “Yes, that’s the idea.”

The waitress chooses that moment to come back to the table with their food. _Cas_ chooses that moment to run one foot up the inside of Dean’s calf.

He gives the girl a tight smile. “Mandy. I’m so sorry, but something hard has come up.” Cas chokes a little on his laughter, and _take that, you gorgeous motherfucker, two can play at this game,_ “Can we get some boxes and take this to go?”

Mandy’s eyes are dancing knowingly. “Whatever you need, sugar.”

Whatever he needs, indeed.

* * *

Dean never remembers paying the bill, leaving the restaurant, or driving back to The Broom Closet. He doesn’t remember Cas unlocking the door, but he does have the vaguest recollection of him taking Dean’s hand and leading him up the stairs to his apartment.

Everything becomes crystal clear, vivid color, fucking _surround sound,_ though, as soon as the door shuts behind them.

Dean doesn’t even give Cas the chance to turn around on his own. He uses his hands on Cas’ waist to turn him and press him into the door. Normally, Dean would let the anticipation build up more, but since he and Cas have been foreplaying for _weeks,_ he just takes the witch’s mouth with his own, laying claim to it.

Not that Cas seems to mind. Cas’ kiss is all-consuming, tongue and teeth and _fire._ Even if Dean did make the first move, he’s immediately drowning in Castiel. Cas kisses like it’s the center of his universe, and Dean finds it easy to lose himself on the slick slide of tongues and the desperate, hungry noises that Cas is making.

It takes him a moment to realize that Cas is gently pushing at his chest. Dean backs off, but only enough that he can attach himself to Cas’ neck. He nips and sucks at the soft skin there, relishing the whine it gets him.

_“Dean.”_

He moves the collar of Cas’ shirt lower to get at more skin. He sucks a dark mark there, smiling when Cas whimpers again.

 _“Dean,_ goddammit!”

He finally lifts his head to pout. _“What?”_ He was _busy,_ for fuck’s sake.

Seeing the way Cas looks right now, though, might be worth it. There’s color high on his cheeks, his eyes are lust-blown wide, and his chest is heaving. Dean decides that he’d like to see much, much more of that chest.

He starts to undo the buttons on Cas’ shirt. When Cas’ hands cover his, he makes an irritated noise and looks backs up at him. He takes a deep breath and tries to get his bearings back. “Yeah, Cas?”

Cas smiles, and Dean’s heart damn near explodes in his chest. “Dean, _bedroom.”_

Oh. Well, yeah, he can get behind that. He immediately puts his hand on Cas’ hips and lifts. Cas squeaks a little _(adorable),_ but gets with the program quickly and wraps his legs tightly around Dean. Dean slides his hands down under Cas’ thighs, supporting his weight easily.

The man in his arms looks a little shell shocked. Dean grins up at him. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Cas blinks down at him, his hands tightening on his shoulders. “I… This is unexpectedly attractive.”

Dean laughs as he walks them back to the bedroom. Cas hums, either in irritation or appreciation, but Dean never really gets the opportunity to find out because in the next moment his mouth is covered with Cas’. He moans into it, still smiling as Cas punishes him with sharp, biting kisses. When they get to the bedroom, the door is shut, so Dean kicks at it until Cas leans back and opens it with one hand. Dean’s not too proud to admit that he’s showing off a little bit by keeping Cas in his arms until they get into the bedroom and he drops him on the bed, smirking when he bounces a little.

Dean maintains eye contact while he reaches up to slowly undo the top few buttons of his shirt, making it a show. Cas’ attention is rapt, especially when he reaches back and strips the shirt off in one smooth move. He does take a beat to be grateful that worked. It doesn’t always, and if there’s anyone he wants to be perfect for, it’s Cas.

“Blessed _be,”_ Cas breathes.

Dean chuckles and starts on his belt. “Yeah, that a good thing, sweetheart?”

“A _very_ good thing.”

Dean slides his belt out of the loops slowly, another little show. He drops it onto the floor, then kneels on the bed and crawls up until he’s caging Cas in, smirking down at him. “Heya, Cas.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Cheesy,” he complains.

Dean grins. “You like it.” He lifts one hand to tug on the end of the bow tie, but it doesn’t budge, and he starts to chuckle for real. “A clip on, Cas? Way to make a guy feel special.”

To his disbelief, Cas starts to _blush._ “Shut up,” he mutters. “I don’t know how to tie a bow tie.”

Dean feels his face soften, and he leans down to kiss Cas gently. “It’s all right, baby,” he murmurs. “I can teach you sometime.”

Just the hint of that promise of a future changes things, slows Dean down a little. He spends long, languid moments kissing Cas deeply, thoroughly mapping him out, making a list of the spots that make Cas shudder, the ones that make him moan. The way Cas sighs into his mouth and relaxes tells Dean that he’s doing the right thing.

He moves to press little kisses down Cas’ jaw, his neck. When he’s blocked by Cas’ shirt, he uses the hand that’s not supporting his weight to start on the buttons of his shirt. He kisses and nips at each new inch of flesh that he reveals, until he’s mouthing at the skin just under Cas’ navel, and when he looks up as he pulls the shirt open, he sees Cas drawing in heaving, shuddering breaths. He smiles against his sharp hip bone. “Doin’ all right up there, baby?”

“I wish you’d get a _move on,”_ Cas snipes, and Dean laughs again before nipping those hip bones that he loves, he adores, he wants to write poetry and ballads and epics about.

“Impatient,” he chides, even as he starts in on Cas’ belt.

“Would you shut up and _fuck me?”_

He plants one last wet, sucking kiss on Cas’ hip, then sits back a little to just _look._ Cas is spread out beneath him, all pale skin and lithe muscle. Dean is a lucky man, even if Cas is glaring up at him like he wants to murder him.

Dean hooks his fingers into the waistband of Cas’ briefs and, without breaking his gaze, pulls them down and off. He tosses them somewhere, because his attention is officially captivated by the very, _very_ naked witch beneath him. “Goddamn, Cas.”

Cas smirks. “That a good thing?”

In lieu of answering, Dean leans down to kiss the inside of Cas’ knee, grinning when his breath becomes unsteady again. He makes his way up Cas’ legs slowly, switching his attentions back and forth, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp bites. Satisfaction settles deep in his chest as he watches his marks bloom on Cas’ pale skin.

At the very top of Cas’ inner thigh, he bites down and sucks hard to leave a big, dark bruise. Cas’ hips are moving restlessly, trying to thrust up into nothing. Dean shifts and uses his hands to cover Cas’ hip bones, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs. “Shh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Dean’s own erection is straining in his jeans, painful against his zipper, but he steadfastly ignores it in favor of pressing his nose into the crease between Cas’ thigh and his groin. The way Cas smells, Dean has discovered, has nothing to do with soaps or colognes, it’s just _Cas,_ and it’s strongest here. Dean darts his tongue out to lick a long, luxurious path there, soaking in every shudder and moan Cas gives up.

When he looks back up, Cas looks a little dazed. “Sweetheart? Still with me?”

“I swear to Christ, Dean, if you’re not inside me in the next _two minutes,_ I’m going to flip the fuck out.”

He says it so calmly, so matter-of-fact, that Dean has to laugh. _Well, that answers whether or not he was serious in the restaurant._ “Lube?”

Cas just flops a hand out and points to the bedside table. Dean leans over and lets out a shudder of  his own when Cas arches up to catch one of Dean’s nipples between his teeth, biting down, punishing. _“Shit,”_ Dean moans as he feels around and finally finds the lube and the condom. He brings them with him when he moves back over Cas, dropping them on the bed next to them.

Cas is still glaring up at him. “Hurry,” he breathes, and Dean might be enjoying this bossy, bratty side of Cas a little too much. He leans down to kiss him thoroughly but quickly, an apology and a promise rolled into one.

Cas doesn’t really relax beneath him until the _snick_ of the cap opening. Dean never stops kissing him as he coats his own fingers, giving it a second to warm up. Cas’ legs come up to hug his hips, and Dean smiles as he reaches down to run one lubed up finger around Cas’ furled entrance.

The man beneath him shudders and lets his eyes fall shut. _“Dean,”_ he sighs against Dean’s lips as he gently, slowly breaches the tight ring of muscle, just up to the first knuckle. He twists his finger slowly until he can feel Cas’ body start to relax, to accept him.

Cas growls against him. “I won’t break,” he insists.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Dean counters, but he firmly sinks his entire finger into Cas, a compromise that has Cas arching his back and crying out. His hands are gripping Dean’s arms hard enough to bruise. The dull pain grounds Dean, lets him focus entirely on Cas.

Dean moves down his chest again as he moves his finger in and out of Cas’ tight _(so fucking tight)_ softness. He latches onto a nipple, teasing it until it’s pink and puffy. As he moves on to the other, he eases another finger into Cas. The noise he makes shakes Dean to the core.

He scissors his fingers gently as he kisses his way down Cas’ heaving body. Cas has morphed into some mindless, writhing creature beneath him, and Dean is drunk on it. He looks up to see that Cas’ eyes are squeezed shut, his face contorted as Dean opens him up. He’s the most incredible thing Dean’s ever seen, no contest.

Dean tears his eyes away from Cas’ face to his cock. It’s a little thicker than Dean’s own, and shorter. His erection is flagging as Dean works him over, and that doesn’t sit well with Dean at all.

Lucky for him, he’s in a position to do something about it.

Dean doesn’t hesitate or work up to it at all, he just swallows Cas down as much as he can. It’s been a while since Dean’s done this, but he didn’t forget how much he _likes_ it. The heavy weight of Cas on his tongue, his musky scent. Dean wishes for a second that he was on his knees, with Cas looming over him, eyes all dark and broody.

_Another time._

For now, he concentrates on his partner and not his fantasies. He hollows his cheeks and makes sure that the rhythm of his mouth and fingers are synced, sending Cas up to be swallowed, then down to be speared open.

He loses himself in it for an unknowable amount of time, until fingers burying into his hair and pulling sharply bring him back. When he pulls off of Cas’ cock, it’s to see an absolutely _wrecked_ Cas, tears streaming down his temples into his hair, breath coming out in a soft, constant keening.

Guilt swamps him, and Dean immediately pulls his fingers out of Cas and crawls up to lay over him. He peppers Cas’ face with kisses in between words. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Too much?”

Cas buries his face in Dean’s neck, pressing frantic, sloppy kisses there, but Dean feels him nod.

“Sorry, baby.”

Cas’ hands start to undo Dean’s pants with what can only be described as scary efficiency. “Off,” Cas demands, still sounding a little watery, but demanding nonetheless.

Dean just lifts his hips and lets Cas undo his jeans and shove them down his hips along with his boxers. He hisses as his cock is freed into the cool air, the tip wet with precome. Cas makes a hungry noise and wraps his long, elegant fingers around it, and Dean’s certain he blacks out for a moment. Cas jacks him firmly but slowly, other hand scrabbling for the condom.

“I can-”

“No,” Cas snarls, “you _clearly_ cannot.”

Dean grins as Cas glares up at him and rips the condom open with his teeth. “Aw, come on, baby, you’re just so _distracting-”_

Before Dean can get much further in his sass, Castiel is using those strong runner’s legs to buck violently, effectively flipping them so Dean is laid out on his back with a whole lot of horny, irritated witch sitting on top of him.

He opens his mouth to complain (or moan, whatever), but it’s immediately full of Cas, kissing him harshly, a reprimand. “Irritating,” Cas mutters as he rolls the condom down over Dean’s swollen cock. “Ridiculous.” He straddles Dean and reaches behind himself to position Dean, all while still glaring darkly at him. _“Infuriating,”_ he moans as he starts to sink down.

Dean groans and puts his hands on Cas’ hips, fighting the urge to thrust upward. “You like it,” he says through gritted teeth.

Cas’ hands come to rest on his bare chest as he sinks down, enveloping Dean completely. _“Oh,”_ he moans, waiting to adjust to the fullness. “Goddess help me, I do.”

Dean reaches up to cup Cas’ face, keeping it there until Cas opens his eyes to look down at him. They’re both covered in sweat, and Dean knows that this won’t last long (he’s eighteen, give him a break), but he takes just a second to _breathe_ with Cas. Their chests rise and fall together until the frantic, desperate energy in Cas’ eyes fades into something softer, sweeter. Cas smiles, and it’s without the usual banter or sass. Just warmth and affection.

By unspoken agreement, they begin to move together. Cas rolls his hips and Dean rocks up into him. Their pace gradually increases until the only sounds are the slap of skin against skin, Cas’ moans, and Dean’s grunts of effort as he holds Cas in place and drives up into him like a man possessed.

When he feels the heat gathering at the base of his spine, he adjusts his angle so he’s hitting Cas’ prostate on every thrust, making the dark-haired man cry out and shake.

“Gonna come for me, gorgeous?” he growls, hands flexing on Cas’ hips.

Cas whimpers. “Yes, yes, _Dean,_ please-”

“Touch yourself, Cas, _right now.”_

Cas obeys, one hand wrapping around his (very, _very_ nice) cock. It only takes a few sharp tugs before Cas is exploding over Dean’s chest, painting it in white, shouting in ecstasy. He tightens unbearably on Dean’s throbbing cock, and he manages two more hard thrusts before his own orgasm shatters him into a million tiny fragments of himself. He’s vaguely aware of shouting Cas’ name, and of Cas collapsing on top of him.

When he comes back down a little, it’s to the extremely unpleasant feeling of Cas leaving the bed. Dean makes a noise of dissent, but the resulting gravelly chuckle warms him.

“Hush, Dean. I’m just going to get something to clean up.”

Dean floats in afterglow and lets Cas gently remove the condom and wipe him off. He promises himself that next time he’ll be the one taking care of Cas.

When Cas gets back into bed, Dean pulls him close, and is vastly amused to discover that Cas is a voracious cuddler. He revels in it and buries his nose in that wild, dark hair.

“Stay?” Cas whispers.

Dean decides to be honest. “As long as you’ll have me.”

* * *

Dean wakes up first the next morning, which doesn’t surprise him in the least. When he looks over, Cas is still dead to the world, burritoed in his side of the blankets. The only part of him Dean can see is a shock of messy, black hair. It’s… Cute as hell.

Dean gets up and grabs his jeans (which he doesn’t remember taking all the way off… Cas must have done it), slips them on, and heads to the kitchen barefoot to make coffee so that Castiel can be a person today. Because, date or no date, mind-blowing sex or no mind-blowing sex, Cas has still gotta open the shop in a couple of hours.

The witchlets need him.

Cas has a real fancy coffee maker, but Dean used to get here around the time Cas was still trying to shake off sleep, so he knows how to use it just fine. Coffee is also probably the only thing Cas splurges on, so it’s _good_ coffee that starts to make the apartment smell like mornings.

While he watches it brew, Dean thinks.

He likes Cas. Like, Dean likes Cas a _lot._ He likes his wit, his compassion, the way he doesn’t really understand pop culture references, so Dean gets to explain them to him. He likes Cas’ body, obviously. He just… Likes Cas.

If he’s being quite honest with himself, he likes Cas enough to stick around.

What’s freaking him out about that is that… Well, he’s not freaking out at all. Shouldn’t he be? Not that he’s opposed to the idea of long-term relationships or anything, but this is different. The way he feels about Cas is so much… _More_ than he’s ever felt about anyone.

His musings are cut short when a cold nose presses into the nape of his neck and arms twine around his bare waist. “I can hear you thinking from upstairs,” Cas grumps.

And with that, Dean’s decision is made. He lifts one arm so that Cas can move around and bury his face in Dean’s neck. Dean presses a kiss to the top of his head and uses his free hand to run it through Cas’ hair.

“Mornin’, angel.”

 _“Ugh,_ shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic comes from this tumblr prompt from **that-beautiful-jerk** : _"Modern witches who keep their potions in empty water bottles and tupperware with their purpose scrawled on them in sharpie. Witches who buy cute little bottles from Hobby Lobby and Michael's so that their potion cabinet will look cute. Witches who's spell books are messy, thoughtless, scribbled in notebooks with like five different pen colors on one page bc they kept losing their pen, ironically while writing a pen finding spell. Witches who brew potions in hello kitty tea kettles and pikachu pots. Witches who have spells in the notes folder of their phone, and who enchant their phones and wallets so they won't lose them. Just give me all the cute, modern witches. Give me all of them."_  
>  Thanks to the FB group for encouraging this story.  
> And, a super quick note: I am a real life, honest-to-goddess Wiccan. So, if at any point during the story, you felt the urge to correct me on lingo, spellcasting, execution of witchcraft, necessity of supplies, or anything else related to witchcraft, please ignore that urge. I know what was accurate, I know what liberties I took. If you have a problem with taking liberties with someone’s faith, I hate to tell you, but Supernatural probably isn’t the show for you.  
> If you want to get into witchcraft, there are lots and lots and lots of books that will detail how to safely and sanely get into Paganism or Wicca. Please look into those before you go fucking with Ouija boards.  
> And, finally, Ouija (or spirit) boards. They are SAFE if you use them SAFELY. If you’ve never used one before, don’t use one on your own without EXTENSIVE (and by extensive, I mean hours and hours and hours, not just twenty minutes of Googling) research, or an experienced, knowledgeable person guiding you. When in doubt, leave the spirits alone.  
> Again, thanks for reading. Feedback is one of my many kinks.  
> Also, new and fancy! I'm on [tumblr!](https://thereluctantshipper.tumblr.com) I'm rarely there, but feel free to pop in and tell me hi! I only bite if asked nicely.


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